Page 93 of Kingmakers, Year Four

That seems to shake Ares out of his daze. He’s still snarling, but he stops trying to lunge at Estas, standing upright and shaking off Hedeon’s grip.

“You stay the FUCK away from Nix,” he shouts at the groaning, battered Estas.

Estas can barely roll over, let alone weaponize any more punch. He spits a mouthful of blood down the front of his dress shirt.

Without thanking Hedeon, Ares grabs my arm and marches me away from the staring circle of students.

He’s pulling me along so quickly that I can barely stay upright on my heels.

He’s still breathing hard, teeth gritted tightly together and shoulders tense as iron.

The cool night air is sobering me up fast.

“Ares,” I gasp. “What the fuck was that?”

“The fucking asshole is dangerous,” he growls, his fingers a steel band around my wrist. “He’s got a grudge against you, Nix. He wants to hurt you.”

“It was just punch,” I say, staring at his still-furious expression.

I don’t know who the fuck this person is. I’ve never seen Ares so unhinged, not even in the middle of theQuartum Bellumchallenge.

“No one is ever going to hurt you while I’m with you, do you understand?” Ares says, grabbing both my arms and forcing me to turn to look at him. “Do you understand me, Nix?”

“Yes. I understand,” I say, startled by the wild look in his eyes. Shaking my head, I tell him, “Most people aren’t too worried whether I can take care of myself. Only one person talks like that—you sound like my dad.”

Ares stares at me.

“I’m not like your father,” he says.

“I know that. But right now, you remind me of him—protective. And a little bit out of your fucking mind.”

Ares starts walking again, taking deep breaths to try to calm down. I can’t tell if he’s still pissed at Estas, or if what I said offended him.

We’ve circled around one of the greenhouses. Now Ares turns, heading between the dining hall and the Armory. I don’t think he has a destination in mind, he’s just walking to cool off.

Several minutes pass before he speaks again:

“What do you think is the dividing line between good and bad?” He looks at me, his expression serious. “What do you think makes someone worthy of friendship . . . or worthy of death?”

He sees me hesitate, lips parted.

“I’m not trying to trick you,” he says. “I’m not asking about your father. I just want to know—what’s the line?”

I wonder that myself.

When I picture the people I know and love—my friends at school, my father’s men, and my dad himself—I can’t create a consistent schema for judgment. They all have their flaws. They all make mistakes.

When I ponder what’s “right” and what’s “wrong,” I only know what I’d do myself.

I look Ares in the eye and say, “I’ll kill anyone who hurts the people I love.”

Ares nods slowly. “So will I,” he says.

That sounds strangely like a promise. Like he’s warning me.

Grabbing me by the wrist once more, Ares drags me into the Armory.

The gym is deserted, no one dedicated enough to fitness to miss the dance in favor of working out.

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